


And If These Pleasures May Thee Move

by morrnrhu64



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Awkward Sex, Awkwardness, Canon-Typical Violence, Cassandra has a voice kink for the purposes of this fic, Colleagues With Benefits?, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Humor, Inquisitor Trevelyan - Freeform, Light-Hearted, Sex In A Cave, Sex Pollen, Sexual Content, Shameless Smut, Smut, Voice Kink, awkward porn, except not really, inquisitor calum trevelyan, it's meant to be light-hearted though, kind of, mentions of it anyway, pwp except porn IS the plot, trapped in a cave with someone you despise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:55:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22209028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morrnrhu64/pseuds/morrnrhu64
Summary: Cassandradoes notlike Trevelyan.Trevelyandoes notlike Cassandra.Due to unrelated circumstances, they have sex.(Or, Cassandra eats a thing that makes her very horny. Sexytimes ensue.)
Relationships: Cassandra Pentaghast & Male Trevelyan, Cassandra Pentaghast/Male Trevelyan, Male Inquisitor & Cassandra Pentaghast, Male Inquisitor/Cassandra Pentaghast, Male Trevelyan/Cassandra Pentaghast
Comments: 5
Kudos: 48





	And If These Pleasures May Thee Move

**Author's Note:**

> Came back to write more awkward sex, because apparently this is a thing I do now. Calum Trevelyan is basically exactly the same as my other inquisitor Max, just a bit more fleshed out, so I thought he deserved a different name lol. I don't actually ship him with Cassandra, but if you'd like to read it as pre-relationship stuff for the pair of them, that's quite all right as well!  
> Also, Ostwick is apparently the highlands now. Because I said so.  
> If this needs a dubious consent warning, please let me know, and I'll fix it straightaway.
> 
> Is it sexy? I hope it's sexy. I've never tried to write anything sexy before, and I can't tell if I managed...
> 
>   
> Calum Kennedy, forgive me for referencing your lovely song in my FILTH, _ancestors, forgive meeeee_ orz  
> 

'This is all Varric's fault.'

'So you've said. Twenty times.'

'It is true! This is entirely his doing!'

'Aye, you've mentioned.'

'When I get my hands around his neck, I'm going to--'

Trevelyan sits upright from where he's been slouching against the rock wall behind him. 'Ooh, moving on to threats now, are we? This should be good.'

Cassandra makes an unusually vicious noise of disgust and continues her angry pacing in silence.

They are, of course, trapped. 

Trapped inside a damp, dark cave, separated from the rest of their party, and completely, utterly, hopelessly lost.

Cursing the dwarven ancestors that led to Varric's conception is the only thing keeping the remains of Cassandra's sanity intact. If the little shit hadn't insisted on staying back at camp for the purposes of 'damage control'--Cassandra scoffs even at the thought--it would be his arse sitting in a gravelly puddle somewhere underground. He would be the subject of the Trevelyan's arrogant smirks and irreverent jests--let the two of them have each other! She'd be better off with nearly anyone else.

'This is ridiculous! How can you sit there so calmly?' Cassandra demands of Trevelyan, who looks, for all the world, like he could drift off to sleep at that very moment.

'There's nothing to be done, Cass. Either they'll notice we've been gone too long and come looking, or they won't. Not like there's any other way out of here, and unless you've learnt how to fly and haven't told me yet, we're not getting out the way we got in.'

Trevelyan stretches like a particularly lazy cat and leans his head back.

'Might as well have a bit of rest while we can. Just sit down, will you? You're not getting anywhere, and if you slip and fall I'll probably laugh.'

With an indignant huff, Cassandra chooses an almost-dry area of the floor after double-checking for spiders (the small ones, not the giant ones; they already looked for those, and for once, Cassandra was disappointed. Something to kill might have lightened her mood a bit) and hunkered down to wait.

In the dark.

_Alone._

With _Trevelyan._

'I wish you would not use that childish nickname,' Cassandra scolds him, feeling the build-up of frustration once again.

'Tell you what,' says Trevelyan, not bothering to open his eyes, 'I'll use your name if _you'll_ use _mine_.'

'Fine! Have it your own way, you stubborn--!' Cassandra cuts herself off, biting down hard on the sudden flare of anger. It seems so unnecessary, so foolish--but it's there, all the same, and she can feel her face burning with a mixture of rage and shame.

'Are you... all right?' Trevelyan asks suddenly. 'You seem... em, a bit on edge.'

A snarl is the only answer he gets, and then there is silence once more as Cassandra's restless thoughts get the better of her.

Varric's fault, she thinks.

Trapped in here, she thinks.

With _him._

He, who spits on her faith at every turn. He, who seems determined to vex her whenever the chance arises! He, who wishes to ally with the rebel mages, as if they could be trusted! He, who dragged the party out to the Storm Coast for the express purpose of meeting a random mercenary leader in hopes of recruitment!

It dawns on her, suddenly, that this isn't just Varric's fault. It's Trevelyan's, and to a lesser extent, Solas's. If the elven apostate had not felt it necessary to debate with the so-called Iron Bull (such a name!) on his way of life, then Varric wouldn't have been needed to smooth things over with his damnable charm; and if not for Trevelyan being determined to avoid anything with ties to the Chantry, and supplement their ranks with hired blades instead, they would never have come out here at all!

Cassandra scowls in Trevelyan's direction, determined to let him have it. But he's already looking at her, one brow arched in honest confusion, and the only thought that comes to Cassandra's mind is, _Was he always so handsome?_

'What?' Trevelyan asks.

'What?' Cassandra demands in return. 'I said nothing.'

'...Right,' says Trevelyan. 'No talking, then?'

' _No._ '

To his credit, Trevelyan really does try to sit quietly for at least a quarter of an hour. But once the boredom sets in, he's back to fraying every last one of Cassandra's nerves with his incessant tapping and random sighs. She holds her temper valiantly for another ten minutes--but then the blighted Marcher starts singing to himself.

And Maker take him, he's _good._

As for the song, Cassandra's never heard it. But Trevelyan's _voice._ It is, somehow, both rough and smooth, husky as though he were a pipe-smoker, it makes her think of rainy nights in the forest and old, old whisky--it's wood and earth, smoke and mist, if Trevelyan smells of sea-spray, then he sounds like it, as well, and the worst, most mortifying part--

It is undeniably... _sensual._

His voice, the way he caresses the words... and how he looks when he's singing.

Long lashes against his cheekbones, the slight furrowing of his brow, the dramatic rise and fall of his chest as he holds one note and cuts another short. He is so wholly consumed by his song that he has no self-consciousness about himself, doesn't even notice Cassandra staring, and yet, she stares.

Maker, does she stare. Is there steam rising from her face? Her skin is suddenly very hot, her armour, uncomfortably heavy on her chest. Without even thinking, she starts to remove it, and the noise is jarring enough that it makes Trevelyan stop singing, stop the plaintive tune from possibly killing someone with the sweet sharpness of its longing. 

'Cass? Are you hiding an injury again?' Trevelyan eyes her with suspicion, apparently unoffended by her interruption, and watches her struggle out of the plate.

'No, and I was not hiding anything last time, either,' Cassandra says irritably. 'I said nothing because no one asked.'

'Probably because nobody thought they needed to ask if you'd been shot through with arrows.'

'It was one arrow, and it didn't go all the way through. When did it get so warm in here?'

'I'm a bit chilly, myself,' says Trevelyan, watching her closely. 'Are you quite sure you're all right? You're looking a bit... flushed. Wait, d'ye have a fever or something?' Without even asking, he yanks off his right glove so he can press the back of his hand to her forehead. 'Maker's tits, Cass, you're burning! Have you got no water left?'

Cassandra jerks away--not because it hurts, but because of how very much it does _not_ hurt. The waterskin is an excellent excuse to turn away and avoid his eyes, and she upends it, draining the entire thing in one go.

'Shite, we're fucked if they don't find us before we run out,' says Trevelyan, thoughtfully eying his own provisions. 'Guess we'll have to share mine between us later. Oh, I've got a bit of jerky left, too. But you had some of that stew, didn't you?'

'Yes,' says Cassandra. That stew. The stew Trevelyan refused to eat, because he always refuses food made at camp, because he is either very spoilt or very paranoid--Cassandra can't rule out either possibility, because he is a rogue, and rogues are often tetchy about poisons.

'Good, then this'll last a bit longer. We'll try to hold off as long as we can. Who knows, but they might have started searching already,' Trevelyan says with a careless shrug.

'Hardly,' Cassandra grumbles, feeling parched and cross. 'We couldn't at least be trapped near an underground spring? It'd be cooler, at least! If I'm to cook inside my own skin, I would prefer it be slightly less unpleasant, if possible. It's so... I'm so very...' 

_Hot._

Hot, _hot_ , _**hot.**_

Cassandra is burning--her blood is boiling, sweat dripping down her neck and under her arms and behind her knees, she is soaking wet and so very distressed, so wound up--what's happening? What is happening to her?

She needs--she _needs_ \--

'Cass? Cassandra, you're scarin' me, now. What's the matter? Cassandra!'

She can barely hear his panicked voice over the sound of her blood rushing in her ears, of her own helpless moans as she writhes in place, desperate to ease her discomfort, desperate for relief. She clenches her thighs together, grabbing fistfuls of her own clothing, nearly tearing open the shirt she wears beneath her armour.

'Oh, shite, oh, shite, are you dying? Please don't die, Cass, there's no way I could ever explain this to anyone. Seriously, you can't die here, d'ye know what they'd do to me? What if I go mad and eat your remains or something? What if the giant spiders catch the scent of your decaying corpse and come for it, only by then I'll be too weak to move, so they eat me, too?'

'I... hate you...so much,' Cassandra forces out, glad to have something to focus on other than her suffering, if for only a moment. 'You... are a selfish... insolent... bastard! Maker's breath, I want you to _fuck me!'_

Trevelyan stares at Cassandra.

Cassandra stares at Trevelyan.

'...why? I'm not saying no, just... wondering why you'd want to sleep with me, if you hate my guts.'

To her humiliation, Cassandra feels tears burning in her eyes. 'I didn't mean it! I--I don't know what's happening to me! It's--I can't--'

'Easy, easy,' says Trevelyan, with surprising gentleness. 'Maybe you've been poisoned. Tell me exactly what you're feeling. Nausea? Chills? Have you got a rash anywhere, or hives?'

'I don't know!' Cassandra wails. 'It's hot--I'm hot, and sweating, and I've never had such vividly erotic thoughts in my life, not even when reading smutty literature!'

Instead of laughing, as she expects, Trevelyan looks genuinely thoughtful, as though mentally going through every poison he's familiar with. A frown settles on his face.

'I'm not sure if it's true,' he says slowly, 'but I have heard that the Antivan Crows sometimes use a sort of--a sort of... stimulant, I suppose, made from a herb that only grows in places where blood has been spilt and the veil is thin--but that could just be silly poetics, or a coded place-name, or something like that. Anyway, it makes you go into rut like a stallion, and they poison people with it to make 'em... er... easier to kill? I guess they're more willing to have something shoved into 'em, in that state.'

The terrible man smirks at his own terrible joke, and Cassandra is too fraught to even insult him.

'But like I said, it's hardly more than a rumour. I'm much more inclined to believe that you might have accidentally touched a fungus or been bitten by an insect, and your body's having a, er, strange reaction. Sure you've not got any bites or cuts?'

'I've been wearing gauntlets since this morning--what could get through the metal? Something I've breathed in? Underground gases that were trapped before our making a hole with our entrance let it out?' Cassandra frantically searches her arms, anyway, and then her legs, scrubbing her hands through her hair in case some horrible little creature has attached itself to her scalp to make her debase herself in front of Trevelyan, of all people.

'Good thought, but if it were something in the cave, it would've got me, too,' says Trevelyan. 'And we have been walking through the same places, around the same trees and plants and shite... we even drank the same water, for fuck's sake! Literally the only difference between us today is where we pissed and what we ate. So unless you were rolling in strange leaves _sans culottes_...'

'I was not!' Cassandra protests hotly--partly because it's true, and partly because rolling in leaves completely _naked_ would be better than her current condition, and if she'd been alone--

'Didn't think so. So, er. D'ye know what was in that stew you had at camp?'

'I--I don't know. I didn't even see who made it--I didn't even look to make sure it was one of our own! Do you suppose this is sabotage of some sort?'

'Maybe,' Trevelyan concedes. 'Or maybe one of our people doesn't know shite about herbs and tossed something slightly toxic into the dinner by mistake.'

'Your rumours--did they mention how to make it stop?' Cassandra asks desperately. 'Does it wear off? And how quickly?'

'That, I can't be sure. It's not lethal--at least, I've no reason to believe it lethal, unless you took in an awful lot of it--and usually these sorts of things are washed out of your blood sooner rather than later. You didn't eat all that much of it, and it was cooked, so that probably weakened its, er, effects. I suppose you'll just have to wait it out.'

Trevelyan shrugs guiltily.

'I _am_ sorry, though, Cass. I didn't know anything like that grew round here. And maybe it doesn't--maybe somebody really did bring something to the camp, hoping to poison us. Or just me. Usurper-ing the Chantry's power and all, as I am. I could've gone patrolling myself--I didn't have to bring you along. I just let Varric insist because I knew it would annoy you. And now we're trapped down here, and you're...'

Cassandra lets out a cry of frustration mixed with outrage mixed with vexation. It sounds vaguely like 'Tethras!' but as her face is covered with her hands, Trevelyan can't be certain.

'Cass?' he tries again, crouching by her prone form. 'Cassandra, I really am sorry. I never meant for this to happen. I hate to see you suffering like this. How about I go over there and face the other way, and you can... em... take care of... this? You might as well be a bit more comfortable, while you wait it out. I'll bet if I sing to myself, I won't hear anything at all, and you can do--whatever you need to do. Sound good?'

'No,' Cassandra seethes, 'but it is what's going to happen. I would hope it goes without saying, but if you so much as peek at me, I will gouge out your eyes and replace them with your testicles.'

Trevelyan's face goes appropriately pale at the threat, and he hurries away to the other side of their earthen prison.

'Shout when you're done,' he calls over his shoulder. 'I'll wait. I also take requests. Think of me as your personal bard, as my way of apologising for your, er, predicament.'

'That... that one you sang before,' Cassandra says, shame-facedly even though Trevelyan isn't looking.

'Aye? You liked it?'

'It was... nice. I wouldn't mind... hearing it again.'

'All right,' he says. And without a quip, or even a smirk, he begins to sing once more.

It is more conscious the second time, as though Trevelyan somehow knows how his voice is affecting her. But perhaps anything would sound more sensual to Cassandra when heard with the laces on her trousers open and her hand in her small-clothes. 

His voice, husky and sweet, takes its time caressing the tune, his Ostwick accent making the flow of his words sound more foreign to her ears. She likes it, though she understands nothing; and without meaning to, she pictures his face as it was when he sat next to her--serious for once, genuine, nearly sad, and the slow, rhythmic way he moved while he sang, a private, subconscious dance only meant for himself.

Her hand moves fast, impatient for relief, and she does not even try to draw it out. She comes, back arching, nearly hitting her head on the stone behind her, and lets her arm drop like a leaden weight.

There, she thinks, closing her eyes and listening to Trevelyan beginning a different song--something about the sea, of course, he is from a port city, after all--and waits for herself to calm, the aching to cease.

It will be gone before this song is done, Cassandra tells herself.

She tells herself this after the third song, and the fifth song, as well.

Three ballads, five country airs, two laments and a quaint little courting tune later, Cassandra has achieved four orgasms and no relief.

'It's not working!' she all but sobs, clutching her trousers closed. 'I can't keep this up, I'm so tired, I can barely lift my arm... I can't--!'

'All right, all right, hang on,' says Trevelyan, turning back to face her. 'I... look, let me help you. This really is my fault, so let me just--I'll, er, give you a hand, and you give yours a rest, all right?'

Cassandra hesitates.

It is stupid. It is particularly stupid, given the current situation, because what he offers is nothing short of succour, but the idea of... of defiling a religious icon...

'I could not--we should not. You are the herald of Andraste. It wouldn't be right.'

'Hm,' says Trevelyan. 'Guess I shouldn't mention all the scouts I've already shagged, then.'

'Trevelyan!'

'Come on, Cass, mark or no, I've got to get off sometime. I'm just a man. I wish people wouldn't expect me to be more than that, 'cause it's not like I'll be able to deliver. The truth is that I don't give a shite about religion or the maker or Andraste. I'm glad the mages rebelled, and I don't want the Chantry to reassert its power over everything. I'd rather see the whole thing to pieces, and people of all sorts free to live as they will. No more templars, no more circles, no more priests. Just people. I don't want anyone to die needlessly; I want them all to be alive and reasonably wealthy so that there's plenty of rich tits for me to swindle.'

'You don't care about the lives already lost?' Cassandra demands, feeling an odd pang of hurt. 'You don't care that Thedas has been plunged into chaos, and that you may very well be the only one to stop it? Are you so childish? Are you so selfish?' 

Trevelyan sighs. 'I'm one person, Cass. One person's worries are all I can carry. So while I am willing to help out at least a bit, I'm still higher on my own list of priorities than the scores of strangers who apparently see me as their last hope. I'm sorry if that disappoints you. I'm sorry if that disappoints _them._ But 'saviour of the world' isn't in my skill-set. You need a trap dismantled? I've got it. You need a lock picked? I'll do it. You need something swiped off a puffed-up nobleman? I nicked it ten minutes ago, and here it is. I'm a rogue, Cassandra, not a hero.'

'And all this,' Cassandra seethes, 'because you hate the Maker? Because you hate people of faith?'

'I don't hate people of faith,' Trevelyan says, frowning. 'I hate what faith turns people into. I hate that powerful arseholes use faith to keep people stupid and compliant and afraid of everything. And d'ye know what? If your maker existed, I would hate him. 'Cause he sounds like he would be a fuckin' monster. But I don't blame _you_ for that. And I don't hate you, Cassandra. I think that if... if things were different... that we might have been friends. You know, in the way every group of friends has the one insufferable fella who makes terrible jokes and usually ends up drunk and in a ditch at some point during the night. You know the one. I don't think you're a bad person. On the contrary--I think you've got a good heart and a real desire for justice, something that every other templar I've met has sorely lacked. But I also think that someone, somewhere, realised that about you, and used it to their own ends. That someone used your loyalty and idealism to make a tool out of you. And it's... it's just... sad.'

Trevelyan draws his legs close to his chest, leans his chin on his knee. He carefully avoids her eyes, and yet, Cassandra can't help but believe that he might actually be sincere. That for once, Trevelyan is speaking from the heart, not performing in the role he has apparently cast for himself.

'Maybe you don't believe me,' he hurries to add, 'Maybe it's presumptuous. But I look at you, and I see a tragedy. I'm sorry for that. I'm sorry you were never allowed to just--to be yourself, completely and fully yourself. Because maybe if you were, you'd have been... happier.'

'Perhaps you are right,' Cassandra says slowly. 'Or perhaps the situation in which you find yourself is the Maker's way of bringing you back into the fold. Perhaps he means to show you that even one person may carry the worries and the hope of nations. Maybe this was all meant to be.'

Trevelyan smiles at her a little, but his eyes look very tired and very old in his young, handsome face.

'Maybe. But I hope not. It'd be a sick game to play with someone. I've... been through some things. I'd rather not believe it was planned. I find it more comforting to think that some people are just arseholes. Helps me sleep at night.'

'That... is fair,' she concedes. 'Then we shall simply have to agree to disagree, I suppose.'

'Aye, looks like it. But--you know, we don't even have to talk about it, do we? We already know we don't agree; let's just leave it off on the shelf, and talk about other things instead. What do you think of fish? I hate fish. They're slimy monstrosities that shouldn't exist.'

'Agreed. Their horrible staring eyes... Josephine finds them to be pretty, but she is Antivan. They write poetry about everything.'

Trevelyan laughs, and for once, Cassandra finds no pettiness, no cruelty in the sound. His smile is honest and beautiful, white teeth standing out boldly from within his dark beard, fair blue eyes bright with mirth.

And Cassandra _wants._

She _wants_ him, so suddenly, so specifically--not as a means to an end, but as an experience in and of itself. She finds herself drawn to his brash charm, taken with his quirky humour, curious about the softer side of himself that he's only now been allowing to show. She can't be sure if it's the result of whatever Maker-forsaken herb that had ended up in her food, or if she'd only been able to ignore Trevelyan's merits because she'd found his personal beliefs to be so morally reprehensible--and that, partly from an imperfect understanding of them--but now, all she can think of is how even in the cave's relative darkness, there is a shine to Trevelyan's hair. She spies a smattering of freckles on his nose and cheekbones, a little indentation above his left eyebrow that might have come from an old injury, and she notes that one side of his smile is tilted higher than the other, giving it a charmingly crooked aspect--

'Cass? You've, em, gone quite red again.'

Unbelievably, Cassandra feels her ears burning even hotter. But she swallows her pride and asks, 'Does your offer still stand?'

'Still stands. Or sits, if you prefer, unless you wanna lie down--'

She skewers him with a glare that isn't entirely malicious. 'No puns, or this ends.'

'You say that now,' Trevelyan says slyly, wiggling the fingers of his ungloved hand, 'but I think I can change your mind. Now, just sit back, relax, and let me work my rogue magic.'

'There is nothing to unlock in my small-clothes,' Cassandra says dryly.

'I beg to differ; getting someone off is just like picking a lock! It requires patience, a deft, steady hand... and a lot of practice, but that's the less reassuring bit, so I usually keep it to meself. Here, I'll put my arm round you like so--' and he slips his right arm about her waist--'that way, I can reach without looking, how's that?'

Cassandra finds herself blushing for entirely different reasons.

'Yes, that would be... yes. Thank you.'

'Don't mention it! Seriously, don't mention it, I don't want anyone to think I'm not a jerk every hour of every day. Bad for my image.'

'Perhaps a change of image would not be so--ah!'

'There, now, I've found the trouble. Shite, you _are_ in a bad way, aren't you? Well, how do you like it? Fingers out, fingers in...?'

'Don't make me say it,' she growls at him. 'Just--just do it, already and--oh... Yes, just like that!'

Head thrown back, Cassandra moans like a wanton as Trevelyan's long, slender fingers work their way in and out of her wet heat, finding an irregular rhythm that Cassandra does not understand until Trevelyan starts humming under his breath in time with it.

'Is that--is that the song from before? The jaunty courting song? You--'

'Excuse you, it's called a _love lilt_. And yes, it's the one from before. Music makes it easier for me to focus. Where was I? Oh, _"Cheeks like ripe rowan berries red"_ \--'

'They are not!' Cassandra hisses, mostly because her cheeks probably are quite as red as that. 

'Relax, it's just a song. Thought the speed might be good for you, but I can go slower if you like.'

But of course when his fingers slow, Cassandra only hungers for more--more of Trevelyan's hand, more of his damnably attractive voice, more of him touching her--

'Faster,' she hears herself panting like an animal in heat, 'I need--I'm going to--'

'You're nearly there? Go on, then, let's see it. Let's see you come apart for me,' Trevelyan says right into her ear, his breath tickling the sensitive skin there. 

Cassandra feels the wave of pleasure crest--but then plateau, quite suddenly, and knows that it's not enough, that she needs, 'More--I can't do it without something to--to rut against...'

'Hm... time to bring something else out the arsenal, then.' Trevelyan pulls off his other glove with his teeth and tosses it aside, so that his left hand can join its fellow in Cassandra's sodden small-clothes. Cassandra is vaguely confused, until a pair of wonderfully callused fingers are on her clit, massaging her swollen flesh at an almost punishing pace, and making her cry out and arch her back.

'Over twenty years of playing the Ostwick fiddle in that hand,' Trevelyan murmurs, and she can hear his smirk, the stupid, insolent, _talented_ \-- 'Nothing could bring that skin back to normal. I'd mind more, if it didn't make my left hand so very popular--admittedly for a different reason to the current one. Maybe I'll play for you sometime--if you ask nice.'

'Insufferable--' Cassandra gasps, 'Arrogant--odious--oh, Maker!'

Waves of pleasure crash over her, and the only thing that keeps her from dashing her head against the rocks is the quasi-embrace Trevelyan holds her in. She can feel, distantly, the muscles flexing in his arms, the wiry strength hidden in his deceptively lanky body, and might have been more offended by his holding her in place if not for the fact that it saves her from swooning like the damsel in one of her ridiculous romance novels. 

'Whoa,' says Trevelyan, when at last she comes down from the high. There are no glib words for a blessed few minutes, and Cassandra thoroughly enjoys it.

Until... until...

'No,' Cassandra nearly begins to weep as she feels her body burning with arousal once more. 'That should have worked! That should have been it, why is it... I'm so tired...'

'Aw, Cass,' says Trevelyan, looking pained, himself. 'Thought that'd work for sure. I'm sorry. Shite, can't even do that right... D'ye want me to--er--try again? I could probably get you off a few more times, at least, and maybe by then...'

Cassandra looks up at him intently from where she is splayed half across his lap. 

' _No._ I need this to end, once and for all. I want you to fuck me.'

His eyebrows shoot up toward his hairline in a rather adorable expression of surprise.

'Are you... are you sure? I mean, I'll do it, but... like, do you really want it, or is it the poison talking? 'Cause I'd rather not bring more poor ethics into this already morally questionable situation.'

'Shut up and fuck me,' she commands. 'I am weary of this, and it seems the only way I'll have any peace is to remove this poison in the most inconvenient and strenuous manner possible. So fuck me, or I will be forced to find recreational uses for my sword that would scandalise the blacksmith.'

Trevelyan decides not to argue further.

He stands and begins to undress, shoving the cloth belt that held his coat closed and the matching scarf from round his neck into Cassandra's hands. As for the leather duster, he spreads it on the cave floor.

'So you don't get rocks up your arse,' he explains, taking the scarf back and bundling it together with the belt to make a pillow. 'There, who says there's no romance in the world?'

'Ugh,' is Cassandra's only reply. She turns away to remove the rest of her clothes--her sweat-soaked shirt, sodden trousers, and unsalvageable small-clothes join her discarded armour, and behind her, she hears the thud of Trevelyan's boots hitting the ground. The tool pouch, he is more careful with, laying it gently atop the stiff padded jerkin he wears. Away go his trousers, his surprisingly modest knee-length small-clothes, and the whimsically colourful knitted socks are tucked into his boots.

'What?' he demands, when he catches her staring. 'My sister made 'em for me!'

That is... rather sweet, actually, so Cassandra checks her laugh, and does her best to not admire Trevelyan's long legs and, ahem, excellent proportions. He's half-hard already, which he acknowledges with a shrug.

'I get off on getting other people off. Please don't hit me?'

'If I was going to hit you, I would have done it already,' says Cassandra. 'Probably.'

Trevelyan grins at her and undoes the ties of his plain linen shirt so that it hangs open around his finely-sculpted chest and abdomen, but he does not take it off.

'Right, so, listen. Shirt stays on, non-negotiable. And don't be slipping your hands up under it--you can grab at my shoulders overtop, if you like, and my front is fair game, but don't touch my back. All right?' He smirks, attempting to sound like he's teasing, but Cassandra can hear the slight strain in his voice, as though it is an effort to remain playful and glib.

'Understood. And I would appreciate it if you did not put bruises on my neck. I don't prefer it.'

'No bruises--got it. And, em... would ye let me kiss you?' Trevelyan asks almost shyly. 'I just--it helps me get... in the right mindset, I suppose.'

'Of course,' she answers, face burning. 'That would be--yes. I would... like that.'

'Grand. Well, sit ye down, and we'll have you sorted in no time. Or in a lot of time, if you'd rather.' He waggles his eyebrows in an exaggerated fashion that nearly makes her laugh.

Instead, Cassandra rolls her eyes; and so, she isn't looking at him when Trevelyan leans over to kiss her.

It is very... chaste, at first. Almost innocent. A test, a tentative caress of lips, and his beard tickles her cheek and the palm of her hand when she reaches up to gently touch his face. It lasts for only a heartbeat or two, before Trevelyan pulls away to look at her, an unfathomable expression in his eyes. She expects him to speak, but he does not--he kisses her again, and guides her backward until she is reclining on his coat, arms twined around his neck, hot breath panting into his mouth.

'Trevelyan,' she gasps when they part for air, and he smiles at her and says, 'Calum.'

'What?'

'My name. It's Calum. You'll say it, won't you? At least for now?'

'Right. Yes,' says Cassandra, flustered beyond reason. 'Calum.'

'Thanks, Cass,' he says softly. ' _Cassandra._ Beautiful name, that. Well, anyway--what shall we do, then? Your desire is my command.'

'Ridiculous,' she grumbles, trying not to smile. 'Just--just get on with it! I want you... inside me.'

Trevelyan lets out a sharp breath, a bit of colour rising in his cheeks. 'Sounds good. Let me... er...' He strokes himself a few times, but makes little progress without lubrication. Cassandra gathers some of her own wetness from between her legs, knocks his hand away, and replaces it with her own.

'There,' she says, voice surprisingly steady as she watches him watching her--for his eyes are riveted on her hand and the way it moves up and down his cock. 'That should help. Better?'

'Uh-huh,' he answers, distractedly. He tentatively wraps one hand around hers where it is touching him, so that they are touching him together, and looks into Cassandra's eyes.

There is a growing urge in her chest to kiss him--and so Cassandra does, this time with her mouth open, and her other hand at the back of his neck to draw him closer. 

Perhaps he was waiting for that--for her to feel quite certain with what they were doing, or to show enough interest to convince him that it was genuine. Either way, it awakens Trevelyan's passion, and Cassandra finds herself being kissed breathless, while warm, sure hands caress her hips and thighs. He kisses his way along her jawline, down her neck, and over her breast, beard leaving a trail of tingling skin in its wake. She clutches at the back of his head, holding him there until she feels his mouth surrounding her nipple, tongue brushing across the tip and teeth ever-so-gently scraping her skin.

'Oh, yes,' she encourages him. 'That's--that's good,' and it's rather an understatement, but Trevelyan hums in acknowledgement, and the vibration of his voice inside his chest is very pleasing. ' _Calum_...'

'Mm-hm?' Trevelyan works his way lower, scalding kisses tracking down her ribcage, across her stomach, where the muscles are fluttering in anticipation of his travelling even further.

'I... would you...'

'I would, and I shall,' he teases her, before finally, finally putting that glib mouth where it can be of better use.

'Maker _take_ you, you terrible man!' Cassandra shrieks, because his tongue has parted the delicate folds of flesh between her legs. His lips close around her clit like a kiss, and the heat and pressure on her already-sensitised nerves hurdle her toward orgasm.

She writhes under his mouth--so much that he slips his arms around her thighs to keep her from bucking into his teeth, and is content to lave away at her until she tugs at his hair to get him to stop.

'Good?' Trevelyan asks, beard obscenely wet and eyes dancing. 'Or not good enough?'

'You know what I want,' Cassandra growls at him, chest flushed and heaving with her frantic breaths. 'You just want to make me say it.'

'Now, that's not true,' he says, pretending to be put out. 'I know what you wanted from _Trevelyan_. I'd like to know what you want from _me_.'

'Must you torture me, you ridiculous, pig-headed--I want you to fuck me, Calum. Maker's mercy, Calum, I need you to fuck me!'

'Well! I'd be more than happy to,' says Trevelyan, glibness somewhat less effective, thanks to the arousal plain in his voice. He is ready, now, as well, cock fully hard and flushed with blood. He guides himself inside at a snail's pace, the bastard. 'But I'll have you know that I'm much more merciful than your maker. I'm giving you what you want without making you sing for me first. And I'd _never_ give you the silent treatment.'

'No,' Cassandra agrees dryly. 'Heaven forbid you should ever shut up.'

Trevelyan grins at her, delighted by her sarcasm. 'How cruel you are to me! Ah... oh, _fuck_. Oh, that's good, Cass, you feel...' he trails off with a sigh, looking perfectly content, despite the whole trapped-in-a-cave situation. She might have been more annoyed, if not for how good it feels to finally have something inside, filling her to the brim, such that her body is aching to accommodate him. The _stretch_ , the _heat_ \--she wants _more_ , and locks her legs around his waist to let him know that he should hurry up and _move._

Fortunately, Trevelyan _can,_ in fact, follow directions when he chooses, even if he purposely misinterprets them in order to vex her. He thrusts into her at a leisurely pace, smiling sweetly when she glares at him in a silent command to go faster.

'Give us a second, Cass,' he teases. 'Let me work my way up to it. Fucksake, you look incredible, you know that? You should see yourself. Whether fighting or fucking, you're a force of nature, brutal and beautiful.'

He kisses her again, which saves her the embarrassment of trying to answer. But he doesn't seem to expect one; not then, and not a moment later, when he leans his forehead against hers and says, 'I fuckin' admire you, d'ye know that? Even if we don't get on. I admire you, and the way you cut through swathes of enemies like they were made of ancient parchment and bad ideas. You look so--ah, fuck--so strong and so lonely, sometimes, it's all I can do not to--' He breaks off with a surprisingly quiet moan; Cassandra would have thought he'd be louder.

'Fuck me, and your tits are amazing. Your shoulders--and your hips--'s good stuff, Cass. If anyone ever told you that you weren't pretty, they were lying. Or you scared the piss out of 'em, and they were trying to make you feel bad. Mm... Listen, don't be insulted if I start laughing, all right? I--em... I laugh when I... finish. Can't help it. Sorry.'

'That is--that's fine,' Cassandra stammers, a bit overwhelmed from being complimented in such a typically Trevelyan manner--haphazard, half-joking and half-sincere. 'Does it--is it a good sign, then?'

'Oh, it's a--a good sign, all right,' Trevelyan says breathlessly. 'It'll, em, build up over time. Useful, far as warnings go. Not there yet, though; I can go a good while longer. Let's see if I can't get... hmm... three more out of you, before we're through. D'ye suppose I can do it?'

'Three! Certainly not!' Cassandra insists. 'Such a high opinion of yourself you have. It's not endearing.' 

'You're lying,' he says in a sing-song voice. 'I can tell, 'cause your ears are red.'

'Ugh!' She turns her head away in exasperation, and doesn't turn it back again, because suddenly Trevelyan has shifted the angle of his thrusts, and it's _incredible_ \--she moans, and gasps, cunt clenching hungrily around his cock, hard enough to make him yelp, but not to make him stop. He plows her through her orgasm, relentless in his quest for another. 

'I'll do it again, if you want,' Trevelyan laughs, more flushed in the face. 'What d'ye say? Will you have another?'

'Maker, yes, _yes_ ,' Cassandra wails, fingers digging into his shoulders through his shirt. ' _Yes_ , Calum, don't stop...!'

'I won't, darling--I'll go on, if you want me to.' His voice is nearly lost amidst his panting. 'Say what you want--tell your Calum what you want--you, with the eyes like a stormy sea, you, with the hands so strong and scarred and perfect--tell me what you want, and you'll have it.'

Perhaps, if she were in her right mind, Cassandra would have been offended, annoyed, even amused by the ridiculous things he said. She might have teased him for being as much a hopeless romantic as herself, or corrected his presumption in referring to himself as _her anything._

Cassandra is not in her right mind. Cassandra is being fucked by the stupidest, handsomest, most _infuriating_ man in all of Thedas, and as such, feels it her right to ignore all of the above, and have a good fucking time.

Trevelyan is true to his word--he makes her come again, and again, and valiantly manages one more before his thrusts become irregular, and all the talking in the world can't stave off his own orgasm any longer. 

'Ahhh, _fuck_ , I can't--that's it for me, Cass, fuck, I'm gonna--I wanna keep goin' for you, gorgeous, but I can't--'

Cassandra winds her arms round his neck once more, accidentally dislodging the leather tie holding back his long hair, which makes it fall over his shoulders in dark waves. His hands scrabble for purchase against the damp rocks beneath them as he fights his own body, so Cassandra gives nature an advantage with a helpful squeeze.

She expects more cursing, but Trevelyan's mouth moves silently, muscles straining in his neck, eyes screwed shut, almost as though he's in pain when he finally, _finally_ comes, spilling inside her with his head thrown back, a nearly beatific expression softening his features.

And then, of _course_ , even as his hips are juddering against hers, he manages to get at her clit with his 'fiddle hand' and wring one more orgasm out of her, making her _scream_ his name, the bastard. 

They collapse at very nearly the same time. Trevelyan manages to turn himself sideways, so he falls directly onto the cave floor, its miniscule denizens probably wondering at the sudden disruption of their way of life. If it hurts, Cassandra cannot tell; Trevelyan does in fact start to laugh, helplessly, airily, and she glimpses the serene look on his face before he covers it with his hands and groans in exhaustion.

'Fuck me, I haven't gone that hard in ages,' he laughs at himself. 'D'ye think my prick will fall off?'

Cassandra examines him critically. 'Perhaps. It's very... red.'

Trevelyan laughs more, the buffoon. 'Well! Tell me you at least feel better. I don't think I've got another one in me. I'm not eighteen anymore. My knees are reminding me of that very, very insistently.'

She considers this. The burning has mostly abated--she can feel the cool cave air on her skin, now, and although she is sore, and exhausted, and thirsty...

'Yes,' she says, finally relaxing into Trevelyan's coat. 'Yes, I feel... I feel much better. Thank you.'

Trevelyan rakes his hair back from his face and smiles at her. She smiles back.

They smile at each other, until it gets awkward, and Trevelyan sits up to dress.

'Fuck--rocks in my arse, rocks in my arse, I never learn,' he laments. 'Where's my--? Ah--there you are. Here, Cass, take my waterskin. You can, er... em... you know. I'll just--go over there and get dressed. Fuck _me_ , I need to piss like a racehorse.'

Cassandra takes the water and her things, and moves to the opposite side of the cave to briefly wash--a sweet gesture, if a luxurious waste of precious resources. She is careful to use as little as possible, while behind her, Trevelyan swears as he attempts to relieve himself.

Her clothes are a different story--she sighs over the state of them, and in the end, shoves her knickers into a closed pouch, to dispose of later. As for the rest of it, though it is sweaty, it will do; she can only hope that anyone who sees it will believe that it is _only_ sweat, and nothing more.

She feels stronger, more secure, once her armour is back in place. 'Are you decent?' she asks, strapping her sword belt back on.

'I've never been decent in my life!' is the jaunty response. 'But if you're asking if I'm dressed, the answer is yes. In spite of my prick's best efforts to kill me.'

'In its defence, it _is_ attached to _you_ ,' Cassandra says wryly.

'Ha! Good one!'

'I thought it the least I could do, considering the circumstances. Trevelyan...' she trails off, uncertain, now that they stand face to face.

'Yeeeeeees?' Trevelyan flutters his eyelashes obnoxiously.

'Stop that. I am trying to thank you.'

'Oh, come now, Cass. You didn't really think I'd just sit by and watch you suffer,' he says, giving her a friendly cuff on the shoulder. 'Besides, you'd have done the same for me! Well, maybe not, but if we end up in a situation like this ever again, maybe now you will.'

Cassandra rolls her eyes, but her smile feels soft, and her chest feels... warm.

'Maybe,' she says, just to see him smile once more. 'Maybe I will.'

'Grand! Now, let's sit and wait to be rescued or eaten. Why don't you, er, wear my coat, though? You can borrow it till we get back to camp.'

'Thank you, I appreciate that.' She slips on the leather duster, which is still warm from their combined heat having been so long on top of it, and tries not to notice how it smells of him. 

They sit side by side against the wall, and Cassandra begins to feel herself doze against Trevelyan's shoulder. She is very nearly asleep when Trevelyan suddenly asks,

'Cass? Who _else_ ate the stew back at camp?'


End file.
